A Life in Fiction

I recently uncovered a copy of Surviving the Writer’s Life by Suzanne Lipsett, from among the many books on writing and writers that have been packed for months in preparation for moving into a house big enough to accommodate thousands of books and manuscripts. In this autobiographical collection of essays, Lipsett admits that she was in disbelief when a world traveler had no intention of turning his fantastic adventures into a book. “What a waste of material,” she exclaimed.

I don’t approach living as “grist to the mill” experience for my writing, but life invariably insinuates itself into my work. Whether this is conscious or subconscious is difficult to assess, but the infiltration is unintentional…for the most part. I admit to making use of life events—my own and those of others—in my novels. Who doesn’t? But who enters into an event with the sole purpose of writing about the experience? That seems like living life backward.

My debut novel, published in 2012 by Avalon Books, is set in a city with which I fell in love during a visit in the fall of 2007 (or maybe even 2006!) Years before, I had started a story about an artist’s model titled “Sylvia’s Hands” but hadn’t completed the work. My visit to Florence (Firenze) changed all that. In combination with a true-life story I heard while working as a marketing agent for a Welsh magazine that had stuck in my head, the tetra-sided tale became Wait a Lonely Lifetime.

I had not gone on the sister-bonding journey with the objective of gathering material for a book. I did bring a notebook in which I was working on another story and making notes. I hadn’t even packed a camera (which I certainly regretted) because one of my sisters had suggested buying postcards instead.

Immediately, I made mental notes about this amazing city, not intentionally to set a future novel but for my personal education. I embraced the adventure, setting aside the notebook in favor of immersing fully in the moments, absorbing every sensation and all information. Two years later, the tour of Italy with three of my sisters, bubbled and brewed and bothered to the surface with Sylvia’s hands and the lost love of a man I had never met and would never know.

Two years after that, I pitched the work-in-progress to Lia Brown, then editor at Avalon Books during the 2010 RWA Romance Writers’ Conference—the third and last of the WIPs I had prepared. One year later, all the pieces of that story came together to make the finished novel which Avalon acquired, just before the publisher completed its negotiations with Montlake to transfer all of its creative assets (writers!) to Amazon’s publishing subsidiary.

The notebook I abandoned in order to enjoy my Florence experience became my second contemporary romance novel, Salsa Dancing with Pterodactyls, which is almost entirely fictional except …

Place as Character

When was the last time you read a book or saw a film that had no physical setting? That is, was not placed in a location you as reader or viewer recognized as at least a possibility?

I’m currently watching a rerun of Star Trek Voyager. The characters are familiar. The dress and language are recognizable. The location is … somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant. Who knows where or what that is?

Fans of the Star Trek franchise are familiar with these vast stretches of the imagination. We expect it, embrace it and depend upon it. It’s Science Fiction, after all. Fantasy at its finest.

But what about other genre fiction: Mystery, Crime fiction, Westerns, Contemporary, Regency Romance? In these fictional worlds, we’re not that comfortable with entirely imaginary places. We like to know that the London of the 19^th Century has the accoutrements we know from history and the novels of Eliot, Thackeray, Austen and Dickens. And that the Alamo is as dusty and dry as we’ve been led to expect from legend and Hollywood film.

Why are we less willing to suspend our disbelief when we read these genres? Why do we depend upon these anchors in reality when we are well aware that we entering a fictional world?

In my novel, Wait a Lonely Lifetime, the first part of the story is set in Florence, the second in San Francisco. I first visited this northern Italian city in the Fall. The city was not overwhelmed by tourists at the time of year, nor was the weather too fierce. The story itself could have taken place in any city or town anywhere in the world but I had visited and fallen in love with Florence.

Although, at the time of my visit I was working on another novel, Salsa Dancing with Pterodactyls, set entirely in San Francisco (with the occasional pop over to the Central Valley and Marin County), the story set in Florence swept me off into that world of piazzas, Mentana freedom fighters, Mafia atrocities and Cosimo Medici. None of these details were essential to the actual story I wanted to tell about Sylviana and Eric, but they all added physical depth, flavor and a sense of place.

When the time came to return to writing Salsa Dancing with Pterodactyls, I had used many of the landmarks and features that are remarkably San Franciscan in Wait a Lonely Lifetime: boating on the Bay, steep hills, narrow alleys, those that best reflected the daily lives of a woman, recently divorced and raising two young girls. For the love story Emily and David in Salsa, I chose commuter trains, office buildings, dance venues, Victorian houses and restaurants, the Golden Gate Bridge and redwood-lined highways.

These physical attributes of a place lend authenticity and grounding where Sci-Fi and Fantasy rely on the lack thereof to create a sense of displacement and wonder.

What's in an Ending?

Some of us write in a kind of stream of consciousness way. Some of us plot. Some of us outline. Some of us have an idea that writes itself.

We all must find a way of coming to an end: one that is appropriate, comes at the right time, is both logical and emotional so that the reader puts the book down with a feeling of satisfaction.

None of us want to hear that our ending was disappointing, unless that disappointment is because they wanted the story to go on and on.

One of the most iconic endings was written in a novel published on June 30, 1936 and very quickly became the most quoted ending for decades to come at the end of a novel 1037 pages long.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.” (Gone with the Wind)

This is the only ending completely suitable for this book, because the readers know this heroine very, very well and are assured that yes, one day, she will get him back.

However, this open, promissory ending has the drawback of inviting others to continue the story to suit their own wishes. The Margaret Mitchell Trust has only ever authorized one sequel, Rhett’s People, but all potential sequels pale in comparison to MM’s achievement.

Many of the best endings are in the classics, both modern and ancients. Here is the ending of one of my favorite books by American author, Anne Tyler:

“…She was frantically waving down taxis—first the one ahead, then Macon’s own. ‘Arrêtez!’ Macon dried to the driver. The taxi lurched to a halt. A sudden flash of sunlight hit the windshield, and spangles flew across the glass. The spangles were old water spots, or maybe the markings of leaves, but for a moment Macon thought they were something else. They were so bright and festive, for a moment he thought they were confetti.” (The Accidental Tourist)

And the ending by a much-acclaimed author, Gabriel Garcia Márquez:

“Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.

“‘Forever,’ he said.” (Love in the Time of Cholera)

Some endings intentionally leave you wanting more, particularly if they are part of a series but cliff-hanger ending are best left to chapters in a single book, not a series that requires a purchase—being left in the lurch or forced to buy is not necessarily pleasant.

As in Gone with the Wind, a novel that ends leaving us wanting the story to go on can lead to “fan fiction.” Whether that is a good thing is a matter of personal choice and taste.

If for any reason, an ending cannot be found that is satisfactory, some writers (and script writers as well) used the epilogue. Like the prologue, the epilogue serves a purpose—the device can cut off any further speculation in the same way that a prologue sets the stage before the story begins. These address backstory and closure but, as Elmore Leonard said,

“Avoid prologues.” (10 Rules of Writing)

I extend that admonition to ‘Avoid epilogues’ as well. If we’re writing a series (or think a book may become a series), an ending can keep that door open as well as close the chapter on that particular story without leaving us with the sensation something is missing.

Or an ending, a final sentence or paragraph

·      Ties everything up

·      Brings all the pieces together

·      Clears up the mystery

·      Identifies the culprit

·      Puts all characters at peace

·      Or leaves all possibilities on the table.

Although the total of the reading experience is the ultimate determinant, we still want the final word to linger and resonate, not as an ending, a finality, but as a promise of forever, hope.